


House of Straw

by SardonicusRust



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast), The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Ambiguous Universe, Blood, Bloodplay, Derogatory Language, Do Not Archive, F/M, Graphic Non-Con, Graphic Rape, Graphic Violence, Knifeplay, Knives, M/M, Mind the Tags, Rape, The Hunt, Violence, Vomiting, no beta we die like men, sodomizing, the watcher - Freeform, this is really incredibly graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:47:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24219121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SardonicusRust/pseuds/SardonicusRust
Summary: The figure in the dark wasn't his hunter. And this one had a whirlwind fury for those who watch.This wolf had come into his home, and predatory beasts don't share territory. They mark and claim.
Relationships: Alice "Daisy" Tonner/Oscar Wilde, Grizzop drik Acht Amsterdam/Oscar Wilde
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12





	House of Straw

**Author's Note:**

> This is really fucking graphic. Mind the tags.

Wilde got home and frowned at the dark. He'd hoped that Grizzop would've gotten back before him so the house would be warm and bright, but he had no such luck-

"Oh! Grizzop! I didn't see you," he said, spooking as he saw the small figure in the chair. In the dark. He snapped his fingers and lit some candles.

“You’re n-”

She moved so fast.

Sasha moved fast sometimes. He’d seen her in battle sometimes, usually when she needed to dodge something or slip out of reach, achieving this blurring impossible level of speed. It was a fluidity, like darkness. Turn on the light and the dark was just- gone. You don’t see it move. It’s there, and then it’s not. Grizzop did something similar sometimes when he got firing his bow and was sending four or five arrows in a heartbeat. He’d seen Carter do it once.

This wasn’t like that. It lacked the careful, smooth quality.

It was too visceral.

Bestial.

A surge of shockingly fast- not blindingly fast, he bore witness to every nanosecond that made up the instant of motion- attack, a carnal lunge that screamed and snarled through the meager space between them. She moved like a bone breaking. A stomach-lurching snap.

He had his mouth open to speak- to finish his sentence, for godssakes, could he at least have that- or to sing, sing for his life, sing her down to submission.

She was too fast even for that.

The moment he realized and went from exhale-speak to inhale-prepare, she saw it. She was just. so. fast.

Before he could taste the familiar cadence and tang of magic that would run through him and into the world, to remake it in such a way to keep him safe, to show his strength, to an arrangement more pleasing to him, he tasted metal and ice.

She had put a knife  _ in his mouth _ .

He froze.

And in that stop, he finally had a chance for his mind to catch up to the brutal rapidity the situation had snapped into. He took in the stopped tableau as if from outside himself, with a distant horror still trying to figure out what had happened between breaths.

The woman was small, deceptively small. The top of her head was barely to his collarbones, nose level with his sternum. She had short hair the color of pale sand, falling sharp over her brow, stopping above eyes almond-shaped, a heavy nose, and lips back in a sneer-snarl of bared teeth through which she audibly huffed, though not with exertion. Her whole body- needle thin and all carnal bone and fair freckled skin- was trembling, as though buzzing with the effort of halting the furious speed she’d displayed. Her clothes were simple, dark, dusty. Utility and blending and nothing more. She was unarmored and unadorned. The only thing shining on her were her eyes, her teeth, and the knife in her hand.

In his mouth.   
  


She had her chin low, but her eyes up- defended and ready for any retaliation he might attempt. One of her hands was wrapped firmly around his throat, the other holding the knife with the blade flat on his tongue, turned slightly so the point nudged deep into the muscle of his cheek, just over his molars.

Despite her trembling energy, the knife was steady between his teeth.

He stayed perfectly still.

He realized this was very bad.

“You don’t speak.” Her own words were barely speech, shoved out through teeth still bared. Despite her small stature, despite the fact that holding both hands above her eyes to grip his throat and keep the knife pressing down on his teeth and tongue that should’ve been an awkward unnatural stance, off balance, she was anything but. She had perfect control of the situation. Of him.

Her hand was too small to wrap around his neck, but she didn’t need size. She had her thumb dug into his jugular, the pressure so hard that both of them could feel the hard fast slamming beat of his heart, and her fingers curled hard against the side of his trachea, threatening his blood, his air, his voice. Her hand was like the jaw of a beast, a spring trap, heavy with the promise to snap and tear a great deadly chunk of the most important parts of his self.

The knife was warming to his mouth, and he fought the urge to swallow the saliva pooling under his tongue. 

Apparently satisfied with his stillness as an answer, she pressed the blade down against his teeth, making him draw breath in anticipation of pain.

“Kneel.”

He slowly put one foot back to go to one knee, then to the other. Moving slowly. He had a blade in his mouth. He had a  _ blade _ in his  _ mouth. _ She moved with him, keeping it flat against his teeth and tongue, tip still pressing into the meat of his jaw, expertly keeping the pressure up without cutting him as he moved. Her cl- her hand stayed on his throat as well.

_How do I get out of this_ _how do I get out of this how do I_

His mind was finally catching up, pulling free of the horror that was like molasses in the wake of her terrifying speed and the intrusive taste of metal.  _ Think. Get free. _

He did not see how he could get out of this without getting a knife through the roof of his mouth or out the back of his skull or his jugular opened or his throat torn-

Acknowledging this, that he was trapped and there were no paths out, he accepted that he would just have to go through this.  _ The only way out is through _ . It wasn’t the first time his life had been at a central point like this, where he was forced through a pinhole in the horizon, threading the needle, enduring the improbable in order to clear to the other side, and he had survived those times. He would survive again.

It didn’t make his heart calm, it did nothing to quell the adrenaline and the animal part of his brain screaming to  _ get away get away get away _ , but he focused his mind on this one goal. Survive.

She leaned in and sniffed him once, and her lips pulled back to show gums around her teeth. “Fucking watcher,” she snarled. He seized on that and struggled to make sense of the words. Could he use this? He couldn’t even parse what that meant. Watcher?

“Fucking  _ watching _ . And whatever-the-fuck-else thing you fucking breed with.”

“I’m taking this territory.”

He felt a flush of icy fear like a sick fever wash over him.  _ Survive _ , he reminded himself.  _ The only way out is through. The only way out is through _ . He tried to fall into the mantra, as he’d done before when he’d had to survive, just survive, endure it to survive for another day, whatever happened to him was fine as long as it wasn’t death, as long as he survived, get out-  _ the only way out is- _

She released his throat and he tried not to widen his eyes with the hope of perhaps escape-

To step smartly behind him, turning her wrist to keep the knife exactly where it was in his mouth  _ in his mouth oh gods oh fuck there is a blade in my mouth- _

Without her in his line of sight, the fear tried to peak, and he struggled against it. He didn’t know what she was doing. He couldn’t see her.

He flinched spectacularly when a small hand seized his hair at the top of his head and dragged his head back. She still didn’t draw blood in his mouth, despite the flinch and motion and the fact that he was now gasping, panting with fear fear fear fear drooling down the blade of the knife and down his own face, and there were tears pricking his eyes fear fear pain fear

“Some fucking watcher bedding with the hunt. Fucking despicable of you both.”

He was slipping into a numb place of fear, which was good. He distantly noted that her accent was Welsh.

And then there were teeth in the back of his neck, and the heat and moisture and sharpness dragged him back into his body. They bit hard, flat blunt human teeth that didn’t make sense with the noise she was making, because it was not human in the least bit. Bestial.

The knife left his mouth-

And then was back.

She was so fucking fast. He didn’t have time to do anything. By the time he’d realized the knife wasn’t in his mouth, it was again. And then he had to spend a moment catching up with what had happened. It took a moment. He was still half numb, mind trying to fall out of his body to a safer state of dissociation.

There was air on his torso. She’d cut his shirt open.

And his trousers.

_ Oh f- _

_ No. _

_ Yes. _

_ Let it. The only way out is through the only way out is through _

His arms, that had been hanging still and helpless at his sides, were wrenched back as she released his hair to seize the collar of his shirt and yank it back and down, off. She grabbed the back of his trousers and pulled them back and down. They stopped around his knees.

He couldn’t even shiver in the cool air as he was forcibly bared. He was paralyzed, a hare meeting eyes with a hungry set of canines.

She was speaking in his ear even as the arm holding the knife in his mouth tightened, forcing his head to stay where she’d wrenched it back, pulling his shoulders back so his chest bowed.

“You reek of them. Fucking traitor beast, lying with monsters. A watcher. Should’ve killed you. Should’ve put you in the ground. Waste of a predator, waste of teeth. Doesn’t deserve the pleasure or the power, doesn’t deserve any of it- we’re gonna mark this, soil their territory, it’s gonna come back to find it’s not strong, it’s not safe, it’s got nothing- it deserves nothing- deserves to  _ feel _ hunted, feel prey fear, I’m gonna fucking bring it down-,” she was saying, all breath through bared bone, rage and predatory contest. 

And that’s when Wilde felt the tip of the second knife.

She wasn’t threatening with this one. This one, she dug in.

He let out a sobbing cry around the knife in his mouth as the second entered him right through the back, splitting skin and sinew, touching his insides.

He screamed as it  _ twisted _ .

Pain. Heat. Wet blood, burning as it ran down his back in fat heavy drops, and he was still drooling down his own chin but now there was blood there too as the knife in his mouth finally cut into his cheek as he cried out. The scream made the air shiver with magic, but it ceased immediately as the sound did, cut off into a gag when the knife pressed down on the back of his tongue. He gagged again as the blood ran into his throat, and everything tasted like iron and sick, burning. He barely kept from vomiting around the knife by trying to mentally slip away, trying to fall back into  _ the only way out is through the only way out is through survive the only way out is through survive the only _

The knife twisted again, forcing him back into himself, and he screamed and gagged and trembled.

The blood running down his back wasn’t a lethal amount. It was wet and plentiful, but the wound wasn’t intended to kill.

He struggled to breathe around the knife and blood and drool, trying to breathe through his nose that was running down his face as well, and tears, as the beast bled him and held him.

“Pathetic,” she hissed into his ear, and the knife was gone.

He screamed again when fingers replaced it, intrusive and probing. Feeling the burning and shivering sinew she’d mangled, touching the raw nerves and wound, dipping into the blood and viscera.

She wiped a handful of blood over his face and he stopped screaming to gasp. She rubbed his own blood in his eyes.

It had felt hot as it had run down his back, but in his eyes, it burned like actual fire.

He couldn’t even scream, but choked around the knife and sucked in air, keening, arching back further as the cord of nerves in his spine pulsed out alarm after alarm,  _ pain, pain, heat, broken, damaged, pain _ . 

_ Survive. You have to survive _ .

He didn’t know if she was going to kill him. He suspected she wasn’t going to, and that should’ve been a relief. He would survive. Good.

It wasn’t a relief in the least. He would give anything, including his life, to not be here right now, as she dragged another handful of blood from the wound in his back and cupped silky wet fingers-  _ wet with his own blood-  _ against his ass.

And then she was moving him again, forcing his chest down to the floor. A knee planted itself on the wound and his entire body flashed with sparks of pain that nearly knocked him out, but woke him up again, pressing his sternum onto the hard ground, but the knife in his mouth kept his head tilted up, neck arched at an agonizing and exhausting angle. He had to consciously keep his head up, but instead of providing a point of focus he could escape the rest into, it only exacerbated everything else. She was now half kneeling beside him, one knee on his back, the other at this side, as he gripped the floor with his fingers and kept his head up, even as his spine arched and bent. He was forced into a sort of U- with his head and ass up, chest on the floor, and everything was hard and bloody, his chin was covered in spit and more blood and tears, his hands were sweating even as he scrabbled his fingers- so blunt, soft, prey, he was just soft prey- against the floor.

The blood soaked fingers against his ass pressed in, and he let out a low groan as one found his hole.

“You’re gonna smell like me, now. Little beast doesn’t guard it’s den, it loses it’s shit. ‘S how it works. You’re mine, now.”

He couldn’t see her- with his eyes tight shut against the pain of his own blood she’d rubbed into them- but he could feel movement around him. She let out a hard breath, like she was in pain-

More blood dripped onto his ass, and he knew with dreadful, impossible certainty, that it wasn’t his blood.

Instead of the blood of his enemy, the blood of the thing above him and in him and over him, the hunt beast thing- Instead of her blood making him hopeful to escape or win, for her to be weakened, it filled him with even more horror.

He was making noise through his own teeth now, but it wasn’t a scream or a keen or a growl, it was pure fearful pained animal noise, like tearing metal or grating stone, as she pressed her blood inside him.

The fingers she shoved into his ass were small, but she pushed in with two immediately. The blood- his blood, her blood, mixing and now inside him- made it slick and easy, but the stretch still hurt, and he couldn’t even tell if it was the blood that was burning or the burn of his own muscles tight and unwilling under her probing rape.

She paid his resistance no mind and shoved them all the way in.

Smearing his insides with blood.

Marking him and filling him with herself.

He wasn’t even aware of what he was doing, beyond keeping his head up to keep the knife from biting into his throat, beyond breathing, beyond not vomiting and wailing and trying to stay still. He couldn’t even relax his hole because there was so much else he was trying to do- trying to just  _ survive survive survive _

( _ Do I really want to survive this) _ _   
_ _ (Please just kill me end me just kill me I don’t want this I don’t want this) _ _   
_ __ (Stop please please stop)

“You’re mine now, you little bitch. It’s never going to get me out of you. It’s never going to own you, because I do now, and I own it too, and this is all mine now.”

He gagged and didn’t vomit and didn’t let his head drop and didn’t let the knife in his mouth cut him- and he let her fuck him with her blood and fingers. Because he couldn’t do anything else.

He had to lie there and take it.

Had to survive.

She pulled her fingers out and pushed them back in, putting more blood inside him. He felt slick and sticky, burning, painful. She rubbed it in firmly, pulled out, rubbed more in.

“Fucking weak. Fucking little hunt whore. You never belonged to that anyways, you’re just fucking prey. I bet anyone and anything could get in here and take it, and you’ll just take it, because you can’t do anything, can you?”

“C’mon. Fight back.”

“Do something. Fight me.”

She let out a bark of laughter. He’d never heard anything less joyful in his life. “Can’t, can you? Just gonna lie there and take it. Take it. You’re nothing.”

“You’re  _ mine _ .”

She drew her fingers back out, and then something hard and unyielding and inflexible pressed against his stickyslick abused hole.

Wilde found his voice again and screamed as the knife handle forced his rim open and forced itself inside him.

He vomited as she sodomized him with her own blood and the knife she’d already stuck in his back and now pressed back into him, in the most private intimate part of himself, shoving it deep and pressing against his walls, pushing it around to make it  _ hurt _ , to make him  _ feel it _ , and he choked on the blood the knife in his mouth drew as he vomited and tried to breathe.

“Fucking disgusting. You’re not even good prey. You’re a grub. You’re just flesh around a hole. It probably knew that, probably just used you like this. Or wanted to. Looks like I beat it to the punch. It ever fuck you like this?” She drew the knife back and shoved it back in, a grotesque parody of sex, pounding the knife handle into his hole in a pleasureless mockery of mating. The blood was going tacky, but he couldn’t even be disgusted at himself because all he could do was keep his head up, keep breathing, all he could feel was pain and fear.

His hands slipped in his own blood, tears, spit, and bile, and the knife cut his mouth again.

“Getting tired already? Weak. I could chase you down and still have enough to fight your weak little hunt keeper. And then still have enough for a real fight. C’mon, is that all you have?”

She rammed the knife handle in deeper, and he groaned as his cock, pressed into the slippery floor (sweat or more blood? He couldn’t see, couldn’t tell, it was all just viscera) twitched in response.

“Maybe it did fuck you like that. Maybe you knew you were a grub too. Not even proper prey. Maybe you knew that already. Maybe this is how you like it. Bloody fucking watcher, you probably knew the truth and probably got off on it.” She’d noticed his reaction- she couldn’t see his cock from her angle, but the beast probably could smell it, the same way she could smell Grizzop in him.

She eased up on the knife in his mouth, letting him slump forward a bit, but this wasn’t a relief- it just allowed his focus to be less on keeping his head up. Which allowed more focus on the other things she was doing to his body.

More blood ran down the knife and onto his hole, and she fucked it into him and rubbed against his prostate again. And again.

Wilde whined and fought it. Tried to fight it. He tried. But there was nothing he could do- he was helpless, she held all the power and held him and dug into him and fucked him hard, and all he could do was take it and bear witness to his own body, as it betrayed him.

He was hard and rubbing against the ground, which was hardly pleasurable. None of it was pleasurable. Yet his body was acting like it was.

He was in  _ agony _ . He could barely breathe. He had never felt disgust like this for anything in his entire life, and it was disgust at himself.

Yet the pressure on his hard prick, the hot blood sliding over his taint and balls, the unrelenting pressure on his prostate-

He fought it.

It didn’t matter. Wilde couldn’t fight her.

She laughed, that horrible barking sound of canid victory, as he came, unwilling and sobbing. She continued to force the knife into him as he did, cruel and commanding, breaking him under her will.

And now he was lying in everything she had torn from him, soaking with cum and blood and spit and bile, and he openly bawled as he realized she’d fucked him and got him off with her own blood, marked him and put herself inside him and split him open, sunk into him, tasted him and he was not his own now-

“Tell your hunter-wanna-be that they’re gonna have to eat me if they want you back. Tell them how well you took me, because you know what you are. Tell them they can come chase me if they dare. If they’re stupid enough to think they’re doing the chasing. Tell them who you belong to now.”

She put her mouth right up to her ear as she breathed this to him, the flat bone of her teeth scraping with her words.

And then the knife fell out of his mouth, and the knife in his ass was released.

He didn’t realize until after she was gone that he could’ve taken up one of the knives and killed her.

He just laid there in his own mess as she stood up, walked around him, opened the door, and left.

He laid there for a long time.

Only realized he wasn’t alone when someone touched him, and he didn’t even flinch.

The hands that pushed healing magic into his torn and abused body were smaller than hers, but buzzed with the same barely-leashed energy, so he stayed limp and unresponsive to them. Stayed still. Took it. Let them touch him and move him. They dragged him up, so he stood, and pulled him along, so he walked, and they guided him into warm water, so he let himself be immersed and washed.

He could still feel her blood inside him, even though the wound in his back had healed.

Water- so much softer and lighter than the hot, sticky, viscous fluids he’d been lying in, coated with- ran over his face and rinsed the blood from his eyes, the bile from his mouth.

He was asked questions, but when he thought of putting together words to answer, he tasted steel and felt the prick of a knifetip against the muscles that worked his jaw, so he let the words go and stayed silent. Didn’t want to get cut. She would hurt him if he tried to speak.

“It’s gone. Or- she. She’s gone,” he said, but Wilde didn’t absorb the words. He held himself inside and kept anything else from entering him, from reaching him. He stayed safe and deep within himself.

He could see Grizzop beside the tub, gently washing his skin. He saw his reflection in the mirror.  _ Grub. Weak. Prey.  _ **_Mine_ ** .

The scar on his back was shaped like a flower, though he hadn’t the words to name it.

He stayed quiet and kept his mouth closed around the taste of metal.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing noncon, so if anyone has any corrections or tips or likes/dislikes, please let me know in the comments! I've been wanting to write a Daisy fic for a while, and when I wondered how Daisy and Grizzop would fare if they met head to head, I came up with this. I'm considering writing it from Daisy's perspective as well, and I'd like to write some aftermath, but who knows.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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